Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

came into my mind.
    ‘And he’s in this one too,’ George said.
    Directly below it, another picture. This was a group photo, taken from some high vantage. Young men and women standing by a fountain. It must have been some tedious summer gala because all the men were in white tie and tails, while the girls wore full ball dresses. There were straps and sequins and ruched shoulders and I don’t know what else. Dresses aren’t my thing. It was a black-and-white shot, but those dresses had beautiful colours, you could justtell. The girls were arranged mostly at the front, with the men crowding in behind. They were all grinning up at the camera like they owned the world, which some of them maybe did. And right in the centre was Annie Ward. She was so radiant it was like the other-light was already on her. The women standing next to her wore resigned smiles, as if they knew they were being put in the shade.
    ‘Here’s Blake,’ George said, pointing to a tall figure grinning in the row behind. ‘Right at her shoulder. It’s like he’s stalking her even here.’
    ‘And look . . .’ With a jolt I noticed a tiny oval smudge just visible beneath the girl’s white throat. I felt my own throat tightening. ‘She’s got the necklace on.’
    ‘Oh, you’ve all come, have you?’ Inspector Barnes stood in the doorway, glaring down at us. He looked weary; even his moustache had a slightly mournful droop. He carried a file of reports in one hand and a polystyrene cup of coffee in the other. ‘What joy. Going to make me spill my drink again?’
    Lockwood stood. ‘We’ve come at your request, Mr Barnes,’ he said coolly. ‘How can we be of service to you?’
    ‘Well, not all of you can . Some are definitely surplus to requirements.’ Barnes looked particularly at George. ‘You got rid of that ghost-jar yet, Cubbins?’
    ‘Certainly have, Mr Barnes,’ said George.
    ‘Mm. Well, as it happens I don’t need you tonight – nor you either, Lockwood. It’s Miss Carlyle I want to speak to.’The hangdog eyes appraised me; I felt the keenness of his stare. ‘Please come with me now, miss. You others wait here.’
    A pang of fright speared through my chest; I looked anxiously at Lockwood, who’d stepped forward, frowning. ‘Nothing doing, Inspector,’ he said. ‘She’s my employee. I insist on being present whatever you’re—’
    ‘ If you want to be charged with obstructing an investigation,’ Barnes growled, ‘keep right on talking. I’ve had enough of you this week. Well? Anything more to say?’
    Lockwood fell silent. I smiled as best I could at him. ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be OK.’
    ‘Of course she will.’ Barnes pulled the door open and ushered me past. ‘Don’t fret. We won’t be long.’
    He led me out and across the operations room to a smooth steel door on the far side. Here he keyed in a number on a pad; the door slid open, revealing a quiet corridor lit by neon strip-lights.
    ‘Your friend Lockwood tells me,’ Barnes said, as we set off down the corridor, ‘that you achieved a psychic connection with the ghost of Annie Ward. Is that true?’
    ‘Yes, sir. I heard her voice.’
    ‘He also says you gained an important insight about her death – that she was killed by a man she’d once loved.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ Well, that was true too – up to a point. I’d had that insight when I touched the necklace. I hadn’t learned it from the ghost-girl herself.
    Barnes looked at me sidelong. ‘When she spoke to you, did she give you his name?’
    ‘No, sir. It was just . . . random fragments. You know what Visitors are like.’
    He grunted. ‘They say Marissa Fittes held whole conversations with Type Three ghosts back in the old days, and so learned many things. But that’s a rare power, and those are rare ghosts. The rest of us have to make do with whatever pathetic scraps we can get. OK . . . this is the High Security Zone. We’re almost there.’
    We had taken a concrete staircase to a lower level. The doors around us were heavier now, and made of banded iron. Several of them had black-rimmed warning signs fixed against the wall: yellow triangles showing a single grinning skull, red triangles showing two. The air had grown cool; I guessed we were now underground.
    ‘Now listen,’ Barnes said. ‘Thanks to your discoveries, I’ve reopened the Annabel Ward case.’ He glared at me askance. ‘Don’t think we weren’t close to figuring out her identity too. You may